


burn

by mormegil



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fire, Gen, Self-Harm, possibly sibling incest if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormegil/pseuds/mormegil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros walks in on something he wishes he hadn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn

He hesitates slightly, the flame maybe half an inch from his bare hand, probably an involuntary reaction, really, not enough to mean anything, but a spasm crosses his face, those pretty thin lips turned down, eyes wide. He recovers almost instantly, jabbing the match roughly down onto his open palm; Maedhros draws in his breath sharply, involuntarily, in sympathy. The tiny flame goes out almost immediately against Curufin’s flesh, and he curses softly. The angle and the thick wood of the doorframe spare Maedhros the worst of the view of his little brother’s skin, the brother he had thought of, they had all thought of, as untouchable, inviolable, cold and beautifully heartless and invulnerable, charring and blackening, but even so, it’s not pretty.

He is breathing hard now, a second match dangling from his pretty fingers. His face is flushed, and not, as everyone expects of their family, with rage. He was better than this, once. _We were all better than this._ He shouldn’t be surprised, though, not really. Maedhros envies his father, too, sometimes, and he has never looked much like him, wished to give his life for him, modeled himself after Fëanor until there’s little else left, not like Curvo has. Maedhros does burn as their father burned, in his own way. Curufin merely wants to, wants it badly, their famed resemblance little more than dust and ashes, up close, after what happened. Fëanor would not have failed. _Father would not have_ tried, Maedhros thinks, but Curufin has been chastised enough for his behavior. He does not want or need to hear it.

He is slower, more careful, with the second match, holding it between one jeweled finger and his thumb as he brushes a fingertip against the flame. He surely knows he isn’t alone by now; he is practically putting on a show, as he always does, even with his less dangerous games.

Maedhros should interfere, wants to interfere, cannot bring himself to open the door. Curvo does not deserve more pain, he should not be doing this, he does not deserve further humiliation. Maedhros has no right to say anything, Curufin has never tried to wrench him away from what he does in the dark. Curufin is his family, all he has left of what they used to be. Curufin is worth protecting, Curufin is sarcastic and more emotional than he’ll ever admit and _beautiful_ , Curufin is fully alive in a way Maedhros no longer feels.

The door creaks under the pressure of Maedhros’s fingers digging into the wood, and, stomach churning, ashamed of what feels like an intrusion, a perversion of what their family should be, he gives in. Curufin does not look up; he has probably known for minutes now, and he does not bother to extinguish the last match as his brother approaches. He does not bother to shift his expression to that damn smirk, either, and for that Maedhros is grateful. Let them pretend to normalcy, let them pretend this is more than a mockery of what a family is supposed to be. Let his brothers trust him enough, even now, when none of them, if he is honest, really deserve the courtesy, not to lie.

Teeth clenched in a way he is painfully aware Curufin would mock on anyone else, Maedhros wrests the match from Curufin’s unresisting, ruined hands. No, not ruined. Even with his skin flaking and burned Maedhros cannot bring himself to be repulsed by his brother. He stubs the flame out against Curufin’s bedside table, ignoring the man’s irritated little cough of protest. Of course; it’s the kind of thing Curvo cares about, for some reason neither Maedhros nor any of their other siblings has ever been able to comprehend. Maedhros walks in on him setting himself on fire, and he’s upset about his table.

He does not have the decency to look ashamed of himself.

They are both breathing hard now, Maedhros’s raspy almost-gasps adjusting to keep rhythm with Curufin’s smoother, softer breaths. Maedhros’s throat closes at the sound, at how the scarred, almost ashen skin of his hand looks against his brother’s darker, warmer skin, still beautiful even callused and burnt as it is, and he clutches at Curvo’s hands, trying to cover the patches of skin peeled away, trying to pretend the circumstances are other than they are.

Possessed of two hands, and in the state they’re both in, Curufin could tear himself away if he wanted, could rip his hands from Maedhros’s awkward grip and turn away with one of his awful cold stares. Maedhros hopes, desperately, incoherently, half expecting it, that he will not.

He returns the squeeze.


End file.
